


Five touches that were probably platonic + one that was entirely theirs

by freedomfrenzy



Series: Gift fics [2]
Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Aromantic, Asexual Character, Asexual Harold Finch, Queerplatonic Relationships, aka another day at the office, aromantic John Reese, car accidents and minor violence, kind of, thats what they gotta work out, working out a relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-25
Updated: 2019-04-05
Packaged: 2019-11-16 03:47:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 3,064
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18086831
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/freedomfrenzy/pseuds/freedomfrenzy
Summary: Five times John and Finch touched in ways that were probably platonic, plus one that isn't that.





	1. Arm against chest

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Friendship is mutually ignored injuries.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For Kadian.
> 
> Thanks to my friend Emily for her information about just how damn stable plastic explosives are.

Their latest number, one Briar Hewitt, has just hot-wired Finch’s car and is haring through Queens with a trunk full of semtex. John has picked a stranded Finch up in a hot-wired car of his own and now he’s dodging through traffic while Finch tracks Hewitt’s phone through the city.

Swerving around a cement truck that’s mounted the kerb, they pick up his trail just in time to see him hurtling through an intersection. Then a semi-trailer ends their wannabe weapons dealer’s plans with a deadly T-bone. 

Thank god for the stability of plastic explosives. As he slams the breaks, John knows his biggest problem is going to be whiplash, not an explosive shockwave. Even as his conscious brain forms the thought, he’s throwing his arm across Finch to keep him from slamming into the dash.

Pilfering the semtex from the trunk of Finch’s car means they’re on scene long enough for paramedics to arrive. One sees the blood on John's face from where he cracked his head on the steering wheel and forces him to sit while she checks him for concussion. Even though she clears him, Finch insists on driving them back to the library. Finch insists he’s fine, even though John catches him compulsively rubbing his chest, but he lets it slide because Finch is pretending to ignore that John is doing the same to his wrist. 

It’s probably best if they both act like it’s just the injuries that their hands keep coming back to.


	2. Hand to elbow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He shouldn't be relieved.
> 
> Spoilers for 2x02, Bad Code.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For Kadian.

“Am I hit?”

“I don't think so.” And John scoops him off the ground and drags him through the chaos. His arm under Harold’s, hand firm around his elbow, looking for all the world like his bodyguard. "Sorry I took so long."

He didn’t dare to hope John would come. It was the Machine that was important, saving people. If his death would keep the Machine safe, Harold would willingly give his life, knowing that John would be there to continue the work. That the Machine would give him the numbers. It was far too selfish and short-sighted to expect John to come after him. 

And yet he had come. Harold’s having trouble moving his feet fast enough to keep up, so John is half carrying him, and he’s certain John is still carrying a gun, they really need to get out of the public space and all Harold wants to do is stare. Stop and stare at John, take in the face of the friend he thought he’d never see again, the man who _always_ knows when Finch needs rescuing and has never yet failed to get to him. 

But he cannot stop, _they_ cannot stop, and so he stumbles along, legs unsteady from the drugs and so long in the chair and relief. He clutches the hand holding him up, hoping that John understands everything he's not able to verbalise, when he says, "I really didn't intend for you to come and find me, Mr. Reese."


	3. Arm over shoulder

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The weight of responsibility outweighs that of any body.
> 
> Spoilers for 1x10, Number Crunch.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For Kadian.
> 
> Sorry for the gap between posts, I made a mistake in my personal life and the fallout has been stressing me out. Hopefully I'm back on track now.

The car bounces at the dip in the road, but the fire escape is opening and Finch can see John. Stumbling to the railings for support, heedless of his gun falling to the ground, _alive_. Finch slams the brakes, screeches to a stop. Ignores the thwarted momentum stabbing up his neck because he can see everything. The blood still spreading across clean cotton, still leaving a trail across the concrete, and _John_. John’s face is so pale. 

He’s reaching for Finch before he’s even properly out of the car. Pain be damned, he ducks under the outstretched arm to catch John as he collapses into Finch. The other man’s weight falls across his shoulders. One of Finch’s hands braces against John’s stomach, the other wraps around his back as best it can. John tries to smile, but his sickly pallor robs it of any joke. It’s more of a dead man’s grimace. Finch’s fingers are slick with blood, but he clings to John because the man can barely hold onto him. 

“Don’t move!” 

John’s legs have given up; he can’t see Carter’s gun. Finch can. He can see all her anger and fear and confusion hasn’t impacted her training, her firearm is trained steadily on them, so he freezes. And she can see him. At first she doesn’t place him, and every survival instinct Finch has is screaming to move before she can. But for all Carter is good police, she’s just sold John out and Finch cannot trust her not to shoot them for running now So he doesn’t move, holds himself still with John’s life hanging from his shoulders. And sees the recognition dawn, the disbelief. 

“You?”

If they survive, everything has changed.

Fingers dig into Finch’s shoulder, John using him as leverage to lift his head around and meet her eyes. Beneath his fingers, John’s blood is still flowing. Bleeding out while they wait for Carter to pass judgement. 

If she doesn’t decide soon, it will be death.

No, Finch realizes in the same thought. If he has to take a bullet for it, very well, but he will not let John die. 

Carter’s stare wavers first. Then her gun. “Get him out of here,” she tells Finch, even as she’s catching John’s free arm. Lifting the strain from Finch and helping to ease John into the car.

But the weight of John’s life lingers, branded into Finch’s shoulders.


	4. Hands on shoulders

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John Reese is not a good patient.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For Kadian.
> 
> So the initial idea was 'A sympathetic shoulder touch in your time of Need' but that...is not what happened. Soz Kay.

The numbers don’t stop coming, but Finch seems to think that John can stop helping. He doesn’t seem to appreciate that John can work through pain, has worked through a whole lot worse than two neatly stitched bullet holes. 

It’s not that John doesn’t believe Finch knows what he can do. He’s seen the kinds of information Finch can bleed out of a stone, John has no doubt Finch has read everything _thought_ the CIA ever had about him. But he thinks that sometimes Finch doesn’t really understand what it means. 

For example, he’s been conscious and in a wheelchair for over a day and Finch keeps insisting he needs to stay in it. At best, John needs a crutch, a point he keeps trying to make, but Finch won’t give him the damn thing. It just leans against a bookshelf, where Finch can keep an eye on it. John hasn’t made a grab for it yet, he’s waiting for the right moment, wheeling himself around endless laps of the small space. As soon as he thinks Finch is sufficiently distracted by their latest number, John rolls for it.

He’s barely planted both feet on the ground- which is _painful_ , not incapacitating- when two hands close firmly on his shoulders. Finch leans his weight onto John, forcing him to remain in the chair unless he’s willing to throw his employer to the ground. Which they know he won’t do. And when did John become predictable enough for Finch to catch him like this anyway?

“For the last time, Harold, I can walk!” he exclaims, trying to hide his surprise. “Let me do my job!”

He hears Finch inhale sharply, his fingers momentarily digging into John’s shoulders, then slowly exhale as he decides to remain calm. “I believe the terms of your employment are up to me, Mr Reese,” Finch tells him, with irritating composure. Then, softer. “Please stop pushing yourself. I know you are perfectly capable of working through injury.”

“Then why-?”

“Because you don’t have to.” Finch’s hands tighten again, in what could almost be a reassuring squeeze if the idea wasn’t absurd. “Please. Trust me.”

It’s the easiest and hardest demand Finch could make of him. Trust is easy, the man saved his life, but he’s asking John to do less than everything he can. Because he, Finch, doesn’t think it’s necessary for the safety of the number to put John through pain. 

Finch has proven willing to risk their work to save John already.

But he was proven right.

John forces himself to relax into the chair. “Alright Finch,” he concedes. For a moment Finch considers whether this is a trap, then takes his hands away. John mourns the loss and doesn’t make a grab for the crutch. “But I’m taking it anyway. Just in case.”


	5. Side by side

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He reaches the final door between them and the outside world and falls apart. 
> 
> Takes place near the end of 2x03, Masquerade.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For Kadian.
> 
> I'm back!

“It’s time we went for that beer.”

The very thought of it sends a wave of terror crashing down Finch’s spine. He doubts he could even make it to the corner of the block this time. “I need to wrap things up here,” he says, keeping his tone even.

“Things here can wait.”

He strives to act unconcerned, even if John’s expression is warm and worried and makes a complete lie of Harold’s efforts. It’s easy enough when he thinks only about the next step. Taking Bear’s leash from John, his hands don’t shake. Fastening the clip to Bear’s collar, he doesn’t freeze. Bear makes the task harder by wriggling and trying to lick his hands. It’s become second nature to rub his ears affectionately. He almost forgets the dread. 

Locking up the library requires no thought at all, his hand remember the motions without him. Bear leads him down the stairs without dragging him. He’s a well-trained dog, he stays within a step or two of Finch’s side. So does John. 

But then he reaches the final door between them and the outside world and falls apart. 

John opens the door and Finch pulls up short. Behind him, library is in shadow, generator gone silent, but dark and quiet hold no fear for him. Not here. The door ahead, however, is a portal well-lit by shops and streetlights beyond. Even through the construction façade he can hear the buzz of city life. Of people going about their lives. Each life a single network of overlapping connections and contacts and agendas _and one of them is Root_. He wouldn’t even know. Caroline Turing passed all his background checks until she had him out in the open.

He sees Alicia Corwin’s confusion, she’s too tired to process the new variable fast enough. Denton Weeks trying to simulate new, favourable outcomes. Both running sequences that will never complete. Both shut down- no, murdered. He must not slip back into seeing people as programs. Corwin and Weeks were more than bad code, but had they lived there would be new spider webs seeking to ensnare him but humans _cannot_ be bad code, they were _more_ but if they weren’t dead he would be if Samantha Groves hadn’t killed them to get to him-

Groves who is still out and still looking for him. Groves who could be anyone, taking root wherever she needs. She could be outside right now, looking for him with ten thousand eyes that never sleep. Or closer, she could have found him, one of the hundreds to pass the library every day, waiting for him to emerge into the open, to take one of countless opportunities to remove John and snatch Finch-

“Finch.” He doesn’t know how long he’s been frozen in place. His hands are shaking, clinging to Bear’s leash like a lifeline, sweat chilling his skin. John is looking at him with kind eyes. “It’s time to go.”

It is. John stands just past the threshold. Focused on Finch, but with that unconscious awareness of his surroundings. Patience rolls off him. He will wait, exposed to the street, for as long as Finch needs him to. But there is an implacability too. If it takes all night for Finch to step across the threshold, John will wait all night for him, but Finch _will_ step out.

If Groves were out there now, John’s back is a perfect target. 

This is the thought that drives Finch to take that next step. His legs lock up, which makes it easier in a way. His body might fail, but it will submit to his control. He forces his legs to unlock, to move across the divide between inside and out. 

Hs is exposed. Out in the open world he is accessible on all sides. Countless angles, he couldn’t possibly cover them all. And in any one of the blind spots, she could be waiting. His breath catches.

A line of warmth presses gently into his side. John doesn’t push, just leans slightly against him, shoulder to hip. He doesn’t say anything; he’s not even looking at Finch. Finch can feel his attention though. Alert to everything Finch is and does, calmly ready to do exactly whatever is needed to protect him.

Against his other leg is Bear, a little warmer and a little less solid. Just as patient and, John assures him, just as loyal. 

Finch breathes.


	6. Hands on neck

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John hasn’t taken two steps into the library and he knows that today is a bad day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For Kadian

John hasn’t taken two steps into the library and he knows that today is a bad day. Not for their number, she’s safely in police custody while Fusco puts together the evidence to charge her. Sure, there’s two kids in hospital with arsenic poisoning, but it’s better than the morgue. They’ve had worse days. 

No, today is a bad day because Finch has been at his desk late into the night digging into Monique Kessler’s finances and at no point has he gone home. He’s shuffled papers around on his desk to try and hide it, even changed his vest. But John’s seen his emergency overnight bag, hidden in the periodicals, and knows that this particular clothing change has come from there. Finch is trying to hide it, out of privacy or embarrassment, but he slept at his desk again and now he’s paying the price. His back is painfully rigid and he’s making every effort to avoid turning his head, while trying not to look like that’s what he’s doing. 

John hangs up his coat without commenting, takes his place behind Finch as the man pulls up the records tracing payments to Kessler from estranged spouses. Carter’s already following them up, probably putting cuffs on someone as John reads. It’s nothing they hadn’t already worked out. He’s more interested in the tight muscles in Finch’s neck, because he knows that it’s been months since his presence caused such strain.

He rests his hands on Finch’s shoulders, applying no pressure whatsoever, and feels the tension rack up another notch. Even now, Finch doesn’t trust being touched.

“What are you doing, Mr Reese?”

Instead of answering, because really, he has no answer, he brushes his thumbs up the sides of Finch’s neck. The muscles under his fingers are far too hard. Finch doesn’t tell him to stop, so he takes a leap. “Do you trust me, Harold?”

Finch swallows. “Of course, Mr Reese. You know that.”

The admission tugs some withered string in John’s chest. He pushes the lump in his throat down and murmurs, “Then trust me now. Relax.”

For a long minute they remain as they are. John wonders if he’s overstepped, pushed too hard. Whatever they have between them is fragile in the strangest ways, maybe he’s just shattered it. Beneath his hands, Finch’s muscles twitch. Then Finch inhales sharply, and John almost pulls back, awaiting a well-worded rebuke.

Instead, the tightness eases a fraction as Finch exhales wordlessly. Lets his neck relax. John slides his fingers up to cup Finch’s jaw on either side catching his head as it falls forward and holding him upright.

It’s a strange position. The ball of his palms rest over the carotid arteries and he can feel the faint thrum of Finch’s pulse. It makes him very aware of his hands. A killer’s hands, rough and scarred from combat. His grip is focused just under the jaw, almost perfectly positioned to break his neck- properly this time- supporting the fragile network of bone and titanium. His lower fingers rest over Finch’s trachea, his palms against either side of his neck. The windpipe is one of the most vulnerable places on the body, he could crush it without needing to move more than his fingers. Instead, he lets his hands sit as they are, warmth bleeding into taut, aching muscles. Presses his thumbs very gently into the muscles at the base of Finch’s skull. Finds almost no give in them at all. Rubs soft circles into them until the knots ease. 

Finch doesn’t move. His pulse flutters in his throat, like the birds he so loves. John can feel it. The trepidation, the urge to flit away. The effort it takes to remain still and relaxed in John’s hands. 

“If you need me to stop…”

“No,” Finch answers, voice barely above an unsteady whisper. “No, I don’t.”

Slowly John works his thumbs down Finch’s neck, loosening knots that have long settled into place. Patiently, inexorably, he digs them up and chases them out. It takes a timeless age, using only the lightest pressure, unwilling to risk injuring Finch further. 

Eventually and far too soon, there is nothing more he can do. His thumbs come to rest back at the base of the skull. The pulse beneath his palms has calmed. He feels the click and shift in Finch’s trachea as he swallows again. 

Again, they fall into quiet stillness. The murderer John was and the man he is trying to be rest in uneasy truce, awed and afraid of the trust he’s being given. Because he’d only wanted to try and ease Finch’s pain, hadn’t truly considered what he was asking from himself until he felt Finch’s blood under his skin. How easily the response to hurt had resurfaced. To kill. And Finch, who knows what he has been, what he is still trying not to be, still willingly placed his life and his pain in John’s hands. 

Finch is the one who ends it. John feels his head lift microscopically as he takes back responsibility for its weight. He removes his hands without resisting. 

They don’t talk about what these moments mean for them when they arise, rarely even talk about what ‘they’ even means at this point. Afraid to define it, afraid to ruin it, afraid to find a boundary where they don’t want one- or no boundaries at all. John isn’t sure which discovery would be worse.

“Thank you, John.”

‘Always’ is too much like a promise, a definition. Like no boundary at all. Pleasantries are too trite; a joke would be poor taste. In the end, he grips Finch’s shoulder wordlessly. Almost too tightly. Thank you, he thinks, and Finch almost leans into his wrist in understanding.


End file.
